


On the Mend

by Rose_of_Pollux



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Early Days, Gen, loopy Illya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 15:59:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7514425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rose_of_Pollux/pseuds/Rose_of_Pollux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An early days piece where Illya ends up in Medical for the first time since his transfer to New York, and both he and Napoleon realize that he’s not quite used to the stronger level of painkillers given in this branch of Medical.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Mend

**Author's Note:**

> References my Baron arc and takes place after “Minuet of Forest,” but can be read independently of it. My version of sedated Illya was drawn from both the canon instance in “The Master’s Touch Affair,” and from the sedated Ducky in the NCIS episode “Broken Bird.”

Napoleon paused in surprise as he headed down the corridor to Medical. Illya was there in the corridor, in the sky blue pajamas that matched his eyes. It wasn’t that Napoleon didn’t want to see his new partner on his feet again; it was that he hadn’t quite expected it, given that Illya had been brought in after a rather strenuous brawl with some THRUSH grunts—Illya had managed to get the better of his assailants, but had not gone unscathed, and had been brought to Medical to have his injuries treated. It had been the first time Illya had been brought to Medical since being transferred to New York, and, naturally, Napoleon had arrived to keep a vigil by his new partner’s sickbed… but what complicated matters was that Illya clearly wasn’t in his sickbed.

To his surprise, Illya noticed him and grinned broadly, giving him a cheery wave as he slowly made his way down the corridor, a noticeable wobble in his steps.

“‘Poleon!” the Russian called. There was a noticeable slur to his voice.

_Painkillers_ , Napoleon realized. _Whatever they gave him here must be stronger than what he’s used to over in Europe._

“‘Poleon!” Illya called again, and he teetered on his next step. “Oops--” Napoleon had quickly wrapped his arms around his partner before he could topple over. “Ahh, _spacibo, Dorogoy_!”

“Don’t mention it. But just where do you think you’re going?” Napoleon asked, calmly, as he continued to hold Illya up.

“Hmm? Home of course…” Illya pointed to the left, frowned, and then pointed to the right. “‘s’that way, Da?”

“Yeah, it’s that way, but you’re going back to your bed here in Medical right now,” Napoleon insisted.

“ _Nyet, nyet_ —I am feeling absolutely no pain whatsoever; surely I am fit enough to--” Illya stumbled on his feet again and would have fallen again had Napoleon not been supporting him.

“Tell me, _Tovarisch_ , during the times you ended up in Medical over in Berlin, what was the procedure?”

“They gave you just ’nough to take the edge off of the pain,” Illya mumbled. “They seem to be far more gen’rous over here. I’m well enough t’ go--”

“Ah, I don’t think so,” Napoleon said, finally half-carrying Illya back to his assigned room. “You’re clearly not used to this higher dosage of painkillers. You’re going to sleep it off right here.”

“Not sleepy…” Illya protested, as he attempted to head for the door again. Napoleon quickly grabbed him by the shoulders and guided him back into the bed.

“Okay, then you just lie right there and tell me what happened,” the American said, tucking him in.

Illya gave him another broad grin.

“You should’ve been there, ‘Poleon!” he said. “They thought that they could handle one small, skinny blond just ‘cause there were five of them…” He held up four fingers, stared at his hand and frowned as he realized something wasn’t right, and held up his thumb, as well. “Da. Five.”

“And you showed them your mettle?”

“ _Da_!” Illya grinned, and Napoleon stared as his partner suddenly launched into what could only be described as some sort of fight song, but in Russian.

Napoleon stared, bemused. Clearly, he was going to have to inform the Medical staff that Illya should only be given lower doses of painkillers.

Illya suddenly stopped singing as a realization struck him.

“‘Poleon? Why are you here?”

Napoleon blinked.

“I’ve been here for the past fifteen minutes,” he reminded him.

“Nyet; I mean, why d’you come at all?” Illya asked, tilting his head slightly as he looked up at Napoleon. “Surely they told you ‘s’not serious?”

Napoleon gave his partner a smile, understanding.

“Yeah, they did,” he said. “But you’re my partner; keeping you company in this less-than-pleasant time is something I want to do.”

“But the Baron--”

“—Isn’t going to be any more difficult to track than he already is if I take an evening off,” Napoleon assured him. _Unbelievable—even sedated out of his noggin, he’s still thinking about me and my lofty goal._ “And besides, we seem to be doing better as a team when it comes to tracking him down. And those THRUSHies you knocked down seem to have some vague idea of where he’s going; the signs are pointing to Monte Carlo. Mr. Waverly said he’s letting me handle it—and to take you along if I want to.”

“D’you?”

“Yeah. Of course I do. You really grow on a person, you know?”

“Like mold growing on bread,” Illya mused, and he giggled at his own simile. “Together, we are the moldy bread that will bring down the Baron!”

“…Sure, let’s go with that.”

Illya snickered for a bit longer and then broke into song again—some jazz standard that Illya had swapped the lyrics for something in Russian about moldy bread and the fall of the Baron of THRUSH.

_Well_ , Napoleon thought, as he propped his chin on his hand and watched his partner sing. _At least he’s on key… And when he sobers up, we’ll be ready for Monte Carlo—and the Baron._


End file.
